The Book of Thanksgiving
by firstcatfish
Summary: Sam writes a list of things he's thankful for. Dean can't help but peek. Set post "Death's Door" 7x10


**The Book of Thanksgiving**

Rating: K

Summary: Sam writes a list of things he's thankful for. Dean can't help but peek. Set post "Death's Door" 7x10

Standard Disclaimer: Don't own them. Just using them to exercise my imagination.

SPNSPNSPN

"You hungry?" Dean glanced across the gloomy interior of the car at his brother. It was only a quarter to six, but it was already dark outside. The headlights of their car of the week had just illuminated an exit sign showing food choices a couple miles ahead. As soon as it had come into view, Sam had started shifting uncomfortably in the passenger's seat.

Sam jumped slightly at his brother's voice and glanced almost guiltily at Dean. "I could eat," he stated quietly after clearing his throat once.

Dean nodded and looked back at the road, keeping an eye out for the indicated exit. He felt bad about the heavy silence that had lingered in the car for the last hundred miles. Sam had tried to initiate conversation several times over the course of the day, but Dean had responded in monosyllables or grunts and his brother had eventually given up.

They had pressed hard that day, with few breaks, so Dean could admit to looking forward to a chance to stretch and walk around even though he didn't feel even remotely hungry. They had nowhere to be and no case on the horizon, but the ghosts of memories and recent events had dogged their bumper with more persistence than a hellhound.

Pulling off the interstate, he drove a couple miles down a deserted two lane road until they reached a tiny spit-in-the-wind town, barely big enough to claim its own post office. Only its proximity to the interstate allowed the couple restaurants and the single motel in town to thrive. Spotting a diner with cheerfully lit windows and a small parking lot just over half full, Dean pulled in, grimacing at the squeal he heard when he pressed on the brakes and the gentle thunk as he put the car into park. It wasn't serious. He'd already checked the car out thoroughly when they picked it up, but the sounds were annoying and made him desperately miss his baby.

The car had barely stopped before Sam had his door open and was stepping out to stretch his tall frame to the sky with a groan. Bending down to peer at his brother, who had yet to move, he stated, "I'm gonna find the bathroom. Meet you inside." Then he was off like a rabbit with a fox on its tail.

Dean found his lips quirking in a grin even as he opened the door and stepped out. He took a moment to stretch as well before heading inside. His ribs were still sore from their last gig and he walked with a slight limp that only his observant brother would have noticed. Despite having been seated in a car all day, he was relieved when the hostess was able to seat him quickly.

The table was a corner booth, as he had requested, and afforded a good view of the entire place. He watched as his brother exited the restrooms and headed toward him, barely beating the waitress coming to take their order. Sliding into his seat across from Dean, they both waited for the girl to get to their table.

The waitress had to be in her teens, her brown hair up in a ponytail that bounced cheerfully every time she moved her head. Her slightly chubby features were flushed with the warmth of the diner and she sported a pretty smile and twinkling eyes. She looked so young, and Dean wondered when he had gotten so old.

"Would you like something to drink while you're looking over the menu?" she asked, making eye contact with both men, her pad and pencil ready. Sam asked for coffee and an iced tea. Dean considered making his order a beer or three, but reconsidered as he glanced at Sam's heavily bandaged left wrist. He wanted to drive a couple more hours before stopping, and while normally he would have gladly let Sam take over the wheel for the last stretch, his brother's sprained wrist would make driving uncomfortable to say the least. With a sigh, he stuck to coffee and a Coke.

Before the waitress left to place their drink order, she pulled out a couple small spiral bound notebooks and placed one in front of each of the brothers. "While you're waiting, you can work on this," she said with a smile.

Dean flipped the book around to read the title written in script on the front cover. "Book of Thanksgiving?" he said, with a puzzled look at the waitress. Sam had picked his up and was flipping through the blank pages inside.

The waitress flushed and waved her hand in a bit of embarrassment. "It's my boss' idea and a bit of a tradition for this place," she said with a smile. "Every year, the week before Thanksgiving, we give out these books and encourage our customers to make a list of all the things they are thankful for. My boss is a counselor part time, and she says that the holidays are times when many people feel depressed or just plain gloomy." Dean cocked his head and pursed his lips thoughtfully. He saw the echo of agreement in Sam's face as he briefly met his brother's eyes. The holidays had never been times of joy or causes for celebration in their lives. They were just another day, another monster. Sometimes even the monsters were seasonal.

"Anyway," the girl continued. "She says that it's difficult if not downright impossible sometimes to remember the good times when you are feeling down. So, everyone should have a list of things that will help them remember why they keep going another day…give them a reason to keep fighting." The waitress shrugged. "Thus the books," she said, gesturing carelessly at the notebooks on the table. Giving them another smile, she flounced off to the kitchen to get their drinks.

Slowly, Dean picked up the book and flipped it open to the first page. In large letters at the top, written in the same script as the title were the words, "I'm Thankful For…"

Fingering the page, he thought back over the last few months. Sam's wall collapsing and his little brother's subsequent bouts with hallucinations and insanity, Cas going off the reservation and eventually getting himself killed, the leviathan threat and Dick's mysterious plan…Bobby's death and the loss of the last real friend the brothers had. What was there to be thankful for? He felt more like finding whoever was responsible for their never ending bad luck and punching their lights out. With a snort of disgust, he flipped the book closed and slid it almost violently to the side of the table where it came to rest against the ketchup bottle and other condiments.

He felt Sam's gaze, but refused to meet his brother's eyes. Instead, he checked out the other patrons of the restaurant, avoiding the look of understanding and probably pity he knew he would find if he looked at Sam. Unfortunately, most of the other customers were chatting happily and writing furiously in their little books. Of course they had plenty to be thankful for. Their lives were happy, oblivious little bubbles of naiveté. They probably wouldn't recognize a ghost for what it was even if it threw them across the room, and they would probably go to their graves insisting werewolves and other nasties didn't exist.

His deteriorating mood was checked with the waitress's return. He turned his focus to ordering the first hamburger and fries he could find on the thick menu in front of him. Sam was fingering the little pen that had been slipped into the spiral of his notebook as he absentmindedly ordered chicken fried steak, green beans and a salad.

When the girl had once again left to place their order, Dean sat back and watched as Sam flipped open the notebook and began to write, a look of concentration on his face. He wrote for a couple minutes before, sensing his brother's gaze, he looked up and met Dean's eyes with a look of defensiveness on features that were more gaunt and pale than Dean liked.

"What?" Sam challenged.

Dean shrugged. "Just wondering what you could possible find to write in there."

"We have plenty to be thankful for, Dean," Sam replied, returning his attention to the book, but placing his bandaged wrist between the pages and Dean as though to guard what he was writing.

"Yeah and what would that be, Uncle Remus?" Dean asked sarcastically, leaning forward across the table toward his brother. "Should we be thankful the Leviathan haven't eaten us yet? Or how about being thankful that Bobby gave us numbers with his dying breath that we don't understand and can't use? Or, I know, we could be thankful that we're all alone to face this disaster without any backup or a friend in the world." He was almost panting when he finished his venomous spiel, but Sam didn't react, just looked at him with a sadness and pain so deep that Dean almost recoiled. He forgot sometimes how deeply Sam allowed things to touch him and how powerful his emotions were under the surface of a tight control born of a need to keep hell memories at bay.

Looking away from the maelstrom in his brother's eyes, Dean was pathetically grateful for the return of their waitress with their food. The exchange of food from her tray to the table was completed with some light banter, though Dean couldn't remember a word either he or Sam said. Finally, they had everything they needed and Dean was surprised at how relieved he was for her to go so his mask could drop a bit. His own emotions were on a wild rollercoaster of a ride and he never knew what he wanted from one moment to the next. Sometimes he craved company to free him from empty silence or Sam's almost desperate entreaties for Dean to talk to him. But then when people were surrounding him, he found himself exhausted with the lies and pretense and longed for quiet and the comfort of his brother's presence.

Shrugging those thoughts away, he turned his focus to his food. Though the thought of food made his stomach clench, he knew he needed to eat something since he had ignored food all day. It was also easier than facing his brother and continuing their previous conversation. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Sam open the notebook again and resume writing, pausing every once in a while for a bite of food.

Curiosity tickled his mind as he wondered again what his brother could have found in this dark mess they called their lives to be thankful for. Shifting position, he tried to unobtrusively make out the words on the page, but his angle was wrong and he couldn't see what Sam was writing without being a lot more obvious and inviting a conversation he didn't want to have. Instead, he turned his gaze to the window and the dark parking lot beyond.

SPNSPNSPNSPN

Poking their heads cautiously into the motel room, Dean and Sam looked around before exchanging a glance and going completely inside. The décor was definitely better than most they encountered. The walls were painted dark brown, the bedspreads on the two double beds a burnt orange. The thick shag carpet contained a mixture of brown and orange threads. Appropriate for the season, Dean had to admit, as well as reflective of his mood.

"You want the first shower?" Sam asked as he slung his bag onto the bed furthest from the door. "I'm likely to take a while," he continued, giving a brief wave of his bandaged left hand.

"Sure," Dean said, shrugging his tight shoulders to ease some of the tension from driving. They had only driven two more hours after the diner, but it had felt like eternity. Sam had spent the time hunched over his stupid book, penlight awkwardly grasped in his left hand while he scribbled furiously with his right. Dean's curiosity was eating him alive, but he refused to ask.

Washing quickly, he indulged himself with a few minutes of hot water pounding on his shoulders and back before finishing his shower and dressing for bed. "All yours," he remarked as he stepped out of the bathroom, a cloud of steam following him. Sam looked up from the single table in the room and nodded before closing his book and tossing it onto his bed. He gathered his sleep clothes and toiletries bag out of his duffel before brushing by Dean on the way to the bathroom.

Dean grabbed the remote for the TV and sat down on his bed, but his eyes were drawn to the little spiral bound notebook sitting on Sam's bed where he had carelessly tossed it. His eyes flicked briefly to the bathroom as he heard a low curse of frustration from Sam as he struggled to deal with his injured wrist.

"Need help?" He called, though his gaze had returned to the book.

"No," Sam grumbled loudly. "It's just awkward."

Making his decision, Dean reached across the expanse between their beds and snatched up the book. Sam was going to be a while, and he would just take a quick peek then return it to where he'd found it. Sam need never know it had been touched.

Taking a deep breath, he opened it to the first page and the ornate "I'm Thankful For…" decorating the top of the page. His breath caught however as he saw the first entry.

_Dean_

_My rock, my stone #1 when the hallucinations get too bad to handle on my own_

_Always there, even when I sometimes wish he would go away_

_Saves my life on nearly every hunt, even when the stupid jerk should be watching out for himself_

_Finds a way to have fun, even when I doubt there's any fun left in my world_

_Eases my grief even while battling his own_

_Knows me better than I know myself_

_Makes me eat and take care of myself when I forget_

Flipping through the rest of the pages, Dean found more of the same.

_I have my soul back, and that's worth fighting the hell memories_

_Dean's forgiveness for all the times I've failed him_

_The Impala: the only permanent home I've ever known_

_2 years with a girlfriend who defined what I look for in every woman I have met since_

_A brother who understood why I needed to go to Stanford, even when Dad couldn't_

_3 ½ years of safe and normal, even though it was a fantasy_

In every tragedy they had faced in their lives together since Dean had gotten his brother from Stanford and even from before, Sam had managed to find a silver lining, something he could be grateful for. Dean's jaw clenched and his eyes burned as he read the last entry.

_Bobby_

_Support in our hunts_

_Teacher when we needed it_

_Safety in times of trouble_

_A listening ear when I needed to talk, even though he hated chick flick moments as much as Dean does_

_For being the father we needed when our own Dad let us down_

_For spending his last breath giving us what we need to finish this battle once and for all_

Sniffing and wiping his arm quickly across his face, he tossed the book back to the other bed. He managed to snatch up the remote and turn on the TV before Sam exited the bathroom. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his brother pause and watch him for a moment before flicking a glance to the book on the bed. Dean realized with chagrin that it was nowhere near where Sam had left it. He refused to look at his brother and struggled to focus his attention on whatever was showing on the grainy television set.

He heard his brother moving around on his side of the room before Sam said quietly, "I'm heading to bed. Good night, Dean."

Dean mumbled a good night in return, although his gaze was still determinedly set toward the TV. He jumped when something landed in his lap. He sent a startled glance at his brother who had turned his back to him and was climbing under the covers in his bed. Looking down at his lap, he found a small spiral bound book with a pen tucked neatly into the spiral. Opening it, he registered the blank pages and looked over at his brother's back in surprise. He hadn't even noticed that Sam had picked up the other book before leaving the restaurant, though Dean had been determined to leave it behind.

Slowly, he removed the pen and stared at the words on the first page. What was he thankful for? With a small smile and another glance at the other bed in the room, he wrote his first entry.

_Sam_


End file.
